


Thistle and Rose

by unreliablefairyservant



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, First Time, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex, bear in mind that the gentleman is an expert emotional manipulator, emma is angry and in lust, stay safe, the gentleman is far too amused for anyone's good, the tags make it sound so explicit but it's really pretty vague and flowery haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 01:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10294856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unreliablefairyservant/pseuds/unreliablefairyservant
Summary: Sometimes you have to do things because they make you feel alive. After she is taken to Lost-Hope, Emma finds herself drawn into a relationship with the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. When Arabella Strange is also brought to the house, Emma has to deal with her feelings for her best friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thistlerose and emmabella ficlets have been languishing over on tumblr for an age but I finally decided to actually post them on here where they're easier to find. Maybe poking the muse will make me actually create some new content as well? One can hope.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She hates that she hasn’t been able to as much as look upon her own husband since the first time the gentleman laid claim to her. Not because of guilt – she holds few idealised views on married life, fewer than her age would have people believe – but because she knows her husband will never be able to make her feel the same way. And because she isn’t sure she would want him to._

Hands in his pale hair, Emma thinks about how she hates the gentleman who calls himself king of this place. She’s holding on on tight enough to hurt, so she hopes, making sure to muss that hair of his more than she needs to as he works her with his tongue, as she gasps but tries not to moan, not to show her pleasure more than she can help. She hates the way he looks up at her, eyes bluer than a January sky, with a wink that says that he knows everything that’s going through her head, and that he doesn’t mind it in the slightest.

She hates that she seems unable to look away and imagine another face. That someone like him is capable of making her feel this way. Good enough that she never even tries to decline when he leads her away from the dance. That hand on her shoulder, that wicked spark in his eye. The way the other guests all know (how could they not) but don’t spare them a glance. Except for Stephen, one time, but the way he looked at them made her feel queer enough that she couldn’t look him in the eye for weeks. Now she diverts her gaze from him as she departs on the arm of the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. She can't bear to know if his eyes still follow them, if that multitude of thoughts and feelings still fly across his face.

She hates that she could slap the gentleman, even spit in his face, and that in this place he’d only smile that wicked smile of his, perhaps grip her thigh a little harder, leaving sharp marks that she will feel for days, and every twinge will make her see his face in her mind. And that makes him the victor of a game she's still learning to play.

She hates that one look from him can be enough to make her shiver, ache to be touched (and only his touch seems to be enough these days). How his scent will come to her, envelop her, steal the moment of her climax the times when she seeks to find it on her own, and so she does so more rarely these days. Not that she goes untouched. She only has to brush the thought with her mind when she is at his house, and he will be there. Ever touching, ever smiling, all-knowing.

She hates that she hasn’t been able to as much as look upon her own husband since the first time the gentleman laid claim to her. Not because of guilt – she holds few idealised views on married life, fewer than her age would have people believe – but because she knows her husband will never be able to make her feel the same way. And because she isn’t sure she would want him to.

And she hates that in a bleak world of endless dances and processions, the one thing that can make her feel alive is _him_. The one she considers her captor. As if she wasn't better than that. 

But in this one place they are equals. If at first she is slow, hesitant, she gets all the more confident as time passes and she learns the rules of the game, the steps of a dance all their own. It isn't long before he smiles that wicked smile every time he looks on her, whether it be in the ballroom or the bedchamber. It’s a cold smile, cruel, and yet there is something in it that could be construed as fondness. Emma isn’t certain. For now, she holds on a little tighter, pushes herself against him, and as her little death claims her she imagines the day when he will meet his end. She can’t say whether the thought makes her feel better or worse. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Her gaze flits to her companion, dancing with another, and for a split-second he considers offering to invite her too. But now is not the time. That would be the opposite of what he’s trying to accomplish at this point. It would make her his, not hers, and he has always prided himself on his talent for gift-giving._

The magician’s wife isn’t really here for the gentleman's sake. In a way she is, of course – he never does anything for purely unselfish reasons – but the charm of it is more to do with how her presence will affect his lady. 

It’s delightfully wicked really. In one fell swoop he will take the magician’s wife from him, and give his lady what she wants and dreads in equal measure. The look on her face when she finds out what he has done will be his prize. He wonders if she will try to _protect_ her friend, whatever that means in that pretty head of hers (pretty, yes, but sharp as a knife – the lady is a continued source of delight). What will she do to keep him away from her friend? He is almost certain that she will do _something_ , and won’t that be a merry game.

When it’s done she glares at him in the dance and it is as he suspected.

“Don’t you _touch_ her,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, feigns ignorance.

“My lady, I don’t follow.”

“She’s married you know.” The dance twists and turns. When she’s by his side again he leans close to her ear, murmurs “so are you, my lady.” She tenses up, breath stopping for a moment before she composes herself again, exhales. He can see her mind working. Will she beg, turn ferocious? Oh how he hopes for the latter. And he isn’t disappointed.

Their hands meet and she digs her nails into his palm, almost invisible to an onlooker and he’s proud of her. She has learned so much. The pain of it is sweet if he chooses to feel it, and he smiles at her, makes sure she knows it’s an invitation.

Her gaze flits to her companion, dancing with another, and for a split-second he considers offering to invite her too. But now is not the time. That would be the opposite of what he’s trying to accomplish at this point. It would make her his, not hers, and he has always prided himself on his talent for gift-giving.

Then his lady nods, almost imperceptibly, and she gets that hard look in her eyes – the one that means she is trying to hide the way she feels, but still it is written so plainly across her. He can see it in her gait, in the small twitch of her lip, in the way her hand tightens, subtly enough that no Christian would feel it – but then they never were a very perceptive race. Conflict is written across her, plain as day. He knows how she hates him and how she wants him all the same, and he thrills in it. He squeezes her hand in return, almost piercing his own skin on her fingernails. When her eyes widen he wins, like so many times before. But she is becoming bolder and he takes pride in that too. How could he not? He has been her teacher after all.

His lady glances behind her when they leave this dance for another, and he is tempted to make her companion look up in time to meet her gaze and see them leave together. He doesn’t. Not this time.

When they’re alone he crowds her against the wall, hands on her hips, nestled in white fabric. He leans in close again and whispers in her ear. “Aren’t you happy with your new companion?”

She is exquisite, full of so much fury. He rewards it with a kiss, close to her ear, where it will always make her shiver, and she moves impatiently, caught between conflicting impulses.

“Why?” she asks, voice tight with emotion. “Why couldn’t you have left her alone?” She tries to move from where he holds her. Her hands at his wrists now, fingers scratching, but she tilts her head all the same, allowing him access to the pale skin of her throat. He could leave a mark, something the magician’s wife can't help but notice. Not this time. Instead, he slides a knee between his lady’s thighs, speaks against her skin.

“Why, I thought you’d be delighted my lady.”

She scoffs. Her fingernails bite the inside of his wrist as she moves his hand up to her breast.

“Did you indeed,” she says. “Well, I’ll have you know,” a pause, a sharp intake of breath as he pinches her nipple, moves his thigh against her sex, “that I won’t let you have her.”

Her words are too unguarded. If he didn’t know exactly what he had in mind, he’d take them as a challenge. Perhaps he will, later. But first he has other plans. He starts to gather up the fabric of her dress and she interrupts him, one eyebrow arched.

“Really, here?” 

He shrugs. “Well, if you’d rather not?” but the thumb of his free hand brushes against the hollow of her throat when he says it and the way she slumps back against the wall with a soft gasp is as good as a plea, coming from her. She doesn’t protest when he lifts her against the wall, their clothes pushed aside just enough.

“Don’t you see,” he continues, once inside her. Only a soft sigh betrays his fading composure. “She’s _your_ companion. A gift, if you will.” For a moment he almost thinks she is going to demand he let her go. She stares at him, mouth working in silence for a moment before she finds her words.

“If you think,” she says, and the fury in her voice is somewhat lessened by the breathless quality of it, by the way she falters when he thrusts just _so_  and lets a tendril of magic run through the thumb he is using to stroke her, “if you think that I am going to – to _corrupt_ her, then _sir_ , you are wrong.”

“Your words my lady,” he says in-between stolen kisses, “not mine.”

She doesn’t say anything else after that. She doesn’t have to. Later – after they have returned to the dance – he notices how she cannot seem to meet the eyes of her companion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The dance has changed. Steps Emma was once so sure of feel new and uncomfortable. She could trip on thin air. And Arabella takes her hands and leads her away from her dancing partner._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels so patchy when it's presented in any format that isn't the narrow paragraphs of tumblr but ah well. 
> 
> Enjoy the flower symbolism. Violets and Sappho are a thing.

The star-like flowers in Arabella’s hair have been replaced with a delicate diadem of violets. A woven necklace of flowers twists around her neck. As pretty as it is, it looks to Emma as if it may come alive at any moment to tighten and choke. And she knows those flowers, this image. _A gift, if you will_.

“I can see what you’re playing at,” she tells him later, once she is sure her friend cannot hear.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are referring to.” His voice creeps along her spine, finds a restless stillness at the pit of her stomach. (An ever-present reminder: her captor, her lover, her king.)

“You don’t, do you?”

“Not in the faintest, my lady.” The music starts up. For a while the only thing that is real is his hand at her waist.

* * *

If there is one quality that defines his lady, apart from her oh so charming ferociousness, it is how _stubborn_ she is. She won’t act without coercion. But Arabella, what is she?

He can see her desire twist and weave about her, but she does not seem inclined to act on it. A pity, really. He would have loved to see his lady’s reaction to _that_. But perhaps… perhaps what Arabella needs is simply a helping hand.

His lady has noticed him looking at her companion. He knows what she _thinks_ he is pondering, that much is clear. If only she knew what he actually has in mind.

A sudden fancy: he ought to crown her with frangipani blossoms. They are known to inspire romance and the name, well. The cultivar he has in mind is called _plumeria obtusa._ If there is a more fitting flower to bestow on Her Ladyship right now, he in his infinite wisdom hasn’t thought of it yet.

What he knows is that his lady will be unable to resist an invitation from her companion. He simply needs to make sure there is one. Now, that really shouldn’t be too difficult. He takes a strand of the desire that twists around her, and he draws it just a bit tauter. At the other end of the room, Arabella flushes and looks down at her hands. After that, the gentleman only has to wait.

* * *

The dance has changed. Steps Emma was once so sure of feel new and uncomfortable. She could trip on thin air. And Arabella takes her hands and leads her away from her dancing partner.

Dancing with Arabella, she almost feels real. For once without _him_. She had forgotten what that felt like. In her mind, Arabella burns bright. Hearts quicken, feet move in unfamiliar patterns, she forgets that she is supposed to be wary. When the music dies down, Arabella still hasn’t let go of her hands. Something moves in the air between them and Emma can feel it twist, turn. When her friend kisses her, she finally gives in.

* * *

They are beautiful together, of course. The way Arabella holds on to Emma’s hands at first, but moves in to embrace her as the kiss deepens. The way Emma’s hands cradle her friend’s face. The way she kisses as if kisses were air, as if she were drowning. So much for staying away from her friend.

They break apart after a while and stand forehead to forehead, Arabella looking at Emma as if she is what keeps her alive, Emma with her eyes closed, chest heaving, until she seems to reach a decision. She takes her friend’s hand, looks around without seeing him and pulls Arabella out of the room.

* * *

She knows the house well after all these years. Knows where she will be able to secure some privacy, somewhere close enough that she won’t have time to change her mind. As they fall into bed together they are both giddy, giggly, breathless in this new escape. But the words ring in her head again, and the bile rises in her throat. _A gift, if you will_. She sits up suddenly.

Arabella rises on her elbows, “Emma, my love, what’s wrong?”

Emma shakes her head, tries to dislodge the words from where they have taken root within her.

“Nothing.” She cannot afford not to act. To walk away from this would be as disastrous as giving in. More. So she does what she can, tries to ignore the echo, and surrender.

Arabella’s skin is soft, warm, human, and she needs more of it, needs it to be the only thing there is. She drowns out the echoing words with kisses, soft touches, moans, laughter. She never laughs when she’s with him. And for a while she is able to find perfection, happiness in a place without hope.

* * *

“I see you changed your mind,” he says when next they meet in the dance.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are referring to,” she says. His own words echoed back at him. Not _those_  words.

He raises an eyebrow. “ _Emma, my love_?” he says with a smile. “I do think you both enjoyed yourselves.”

In the middle of the dance, Emma stops completely, paying no attention to the guests that stare at her as she covers her mouth with both hands. She is silent for a moment. Then, a quiver in her voice, she says, “you must excuse me.”

He does not stop her when she leaves.


	4. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first time he kisses her is like letting out a breath she has been holding for months. It’s no more than a peck, over too soon and she follows when he pulls away, leaning into a kiss that is no more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting these ficlets in the order that I wrote them instead of in chronological order, which means that this one takes place before the others. Enjoy!

The first time she is summoned by the mournful bell is a week, perhaps more, after her death.

She still thinks of it as her death. In the beginning it’s a joke that she doesn’t tell her husband because of the dark look that crosses his face whenever he is forced to remember that night. Later she realises that there is a truth to it after all. Her current existence is certainly not living.

At first, it’s all like a dream, perfect and glittering. Emma would be afraid if she believed it was really happening, but since she knows that cannot be, she feels no fear. The gentleman with the shock of thistle-down hair dances with her all evening – and how he dances! She never knew anyone who danced half as well (another sign that this is all a dream). And a part of her thinks that she will always remember this dream, and hold all future dancers to him.

They talk, she could not say about what, only that she is delighted, charmed, and that somehow the chaste kiss of her hand by the end of the evening is enough to make her blush.

Later, after she has come to realise that this place, this experience, is in fact quite real, something is drained from the glittering perfection of it. The peculiarities of the other guests have not escaped her and they seem at once more frightening now that she knows they are for real. And what of her host? Emma still doesn’t know his name, though they’ve danced and talked many, many nights now. Is he only interested in dancing? She knows what men want, after all. And would he really keep inviting her to this so very strange house without some other motive?

The fact that she can tell no one makes it hard to breathe.

But he does nothing that he has not done since the beginning of their acquaintance. There is the occasional remark that stays in her head, spins around there until she can no longer tell whether she is making things up or not, but it’s only words after all. If she told someone about it, if she were able to, it would all sound perfectly innocent – wouldn’t it?

The first time he kisses her is like letting out a breath she has been holding for months. It’s no more than a peck, over too soon and she follows when he pulls away, leaning into a kiss that is no more. If he notices, he does not comment. She thinks of her husband, of the way she feels when he kisses her (not like this). Of the things husband and wife do together. She is certain that the flushing of her cheeks does not go unnoticed.

However much she expects him to, he does not seem inclined to take things further. There are other kisses, yes, some that linger – a coolness on her lips, a touch of mint and something she can't place – but nothing more than that. And she finds herself wanting more, to the point where every touch from him makes her shiver, even just holding hands in the dance.

When one day, at long last, she is the one who approaches him, something changes in the air between them. When her lips meet his, he brings up his hand to hold her chin and the undercurrents of the gesture stir things in her head that she is only dimly aware of. It is like being enveloped in winter, and she wants to inhale it, live it.

He doesn’t speak, and she is reminded of the way people act around shy animals, _let them come to you_. But before she can consider this further, he has deepened the kiss and she disappears into it, melts, her thoughts becoming as water and the only thing she wants is more. More contact, closer.

And then, just as soon as it had begun, it is over. There is music coming from the adjacent room. The gentleman strokes her cheek with his thumb, a look on his face that she cannot read.

“We are expected, my lady,” he murmurs before pressing his lips to hers again, briefly this time. And in some part of her head she questions her own actions, her thoughts, but then he places her hand on his arm, leads her back to the dance. Soon she is no longer sure what would make her hesitate.

Change is always subtle enough that she never knows it until after it has become a fact. When one night they are alone (and her skin is tingling, and possibility is hovering in the air), she knows that they have reached a point unimaginable just weeks ago. Suddenly bashful, she looks down at her hands, not sure of how to act. But he is there, taking her hands in his, kissing them, kissing her mouth open, the dance of tongues that she is getting used to now. When she steps close enough that their bodies are perfectly aligned, that the only space between them fits her hands on his chest, he hums in approval. In the wake of his hands on her body, her waist, her hip, she can feel a sparkling like lightning.

“Oh,” she whispers, “please.”

“Please what, my lady?” his mouth close to her ear, his voice low yet reverberating throughout her body. She gasps at the sensation, at having to voice what she wants, at not knowing how.

“I want,” she falters, moans at the touch of his lips on her throat, “more, please, anything.”

“Anything.” It’s not a question. “My lady,” (and his breath on her neck, the places where he has kissed her rapidly cooling) “do I take it that I have your assent?” he lingers on the last word, seeming to delight in speaking it and she makes an involuntary sound, too close to a whimper.

“Of course,” she says, voice barely more than a breath. And he smiles then, making her think for some reason of a wolf. His hand is on her waist, his very presence keeping her grounded (paralysed). His breath on her ear when he speaks makes her shiver.

“Delighted to hear it, my lady,” he says.

Emma isn’t sure what to expect. She thinks back to her husband, then decides that the less similar this encounter is to that one, the better. That had been awkward fumbling in the dark, her husband all apologies, as if he were doing her a disservice, tarnishing her with his touch. Everything about this is different.

The room is illuminated by a pale green light that somehow soothes the edges of things just as it makes them visible. He leads her to a settee, sits down next to her, and his hand lightly touching her knee seems for some reason like the most intimate gesture imaginable. It would be nothing at all, were it not for the way they are all alone, the way her heart beats in her chest, the way he looks at her before he kisses her again.

He moves slowly, deliberately, soon making her forget any lingering hesitation. And when he at last reaches under her skirt, letting cool fingers stroke the inside of her thigh, she bites her lip, left only with a sense of anticipation. And he stops.

Suddenly bold, she takes his hand in hers and guides him up, up, to where she needs him the most, and he chuckles low, kisses her deeply. The realisation that he is pleased with her boldness makes her heart flutter. His fingers are on her then, in her, and his lips on hers until she arches, gasps, and he nips at her skin just as her world sharpens into that single point of pleasure.

Afterwards there are more kisses, murmuring, soft words she doesn’t understand. He doesn’t seem inclined to take his pleasure from her, doesn’t allow her to touch him in return, says that there will be more time for that, later. Were it not for the kisses, she might feel hurt, but they are soothing.

Perhaps there is some life to be found here after all.


End file.
